Chapter 1 - The Crumpled Note on the White Runner
The white runner stretched too perfect under the rose arches, and my white shoes were already dirty at the toes from where I'd been twisting them into the carpet. My dad stood at the entrance to the aisle in his black tuxedo, the white rose on his chest so bright against the black, and everyone behind him was blurred and waiting, and I couldn't breathe right because the paper in my hands wouldn't smooth out no matter how hard I squeezed it. It was supposed to be his wedding day, the kind of day where everything stayed clean and still for pictures, but my dress was wrinkled where I'd bunched it in my fists and my face was wet and the note I'd been holding was damp and crumpled between my palms.
Across from me, behind the big wooden double doors that were still half-closed, she was at her peak. I could see just enough of her white lace dress and her low bun and the way the light hit the illusion neckline she had fussed over that morning. She looked like a bride from a magazine, composed and untouched, while I stood there crying in my flower girl dress with the little white bow slipping in my hair.
My name is Emily. I was five that morning, and I was supposed to walk down that aisle before anyone else.
My dad crouched down so his bow tie was level with my eyes. He didn't look at the arches or the guests or the doors. He looked at my hands. I held the little crumpled white paper out to him and my fingers wouldn't stop shaking. It was folded and wrinkled and the edges had softened where I'd held it too long. I remember the way he took it so carefully, like it might tear, and used both hands to unfold it on his knee. The paper made a soft crackling sound. He smoothed it once, then again, his thumb pressing over the handwritten lines, and his jaw got tight. I watched his eyes move left to right and then stop.
"Her mother said I have to leave forever," I said to him, and my voice broke on the last word.
He didn't answer right away. He kept looking down at that note and then back up at me, his brow furrowed, his breathing a little faster. I had asked him the only thing I needed to know and I couldn't wait any longer to hear it.
"Did you agree, Daddy?" I asked him. It came out small and anxious and I was staring at his mouth, waiting for it to move.
He folded the paper back in half, just once, and slid it into his palm and closed his fingers around it. He looked me right in the eyes.
"No, never," he said. His voice was low and firm, and he tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear with his other hand.
Before I could answer, the wooden doors creaked a little wider. She peeked through the gap, smiling the way she did when people were watching, and then she stepped into the aisle just enough for the light to catch her earrings. She didn't look at me. She looked at my dad, her hands clasped lightly in front of her dress.
"Darling, the priest is waiting. Give Emily to the nanny," she said. It was composed and even, like she was solving a small problem.
My dad stood up. He didn't do anything fast. He stood and he kept the crumpled note in his hand, and he turned to face her right there on the white runner under the arches with the guests blurred behind us. I felt his hand come down and rest lightly on my shoulder, and I stepped closer to his leg. The air had gone quiet except for the soft rustle of the roses in the breeze.
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"Did you write this threat to my daughter?" he asked her. His voice was controlled and angry, holding that tension without letting it break.
She opened her mouth to answer and the doors behind her stayed open, and the white runner stayed empty between us and the altar, and my dad didn't move.
